Come Home
by sadisticscribbles
Summary: John would never get there in time, his friend was falling too fast, far too fast, but John wanted to be there, just to see him, to hold him one last time. SLASH: don't like, don't read.
1. Torn Away

**Okay, this first chapter is dedicated to Hinkypink77 (Youtube) for her awesome video entitled Sherlock: The Fall which inspired this story. This is also dedicated to Murray Gold, composer for Doctor Who, whose music got me through the final lines of this chapter. **

**Sorry about the length, but the next chapter should be longer. **

No. No. No! This couldn't happen. This _shouldn't _happen. This-it wasn't fair! Not now. John stared at the figure falling through the air, coat-tails flapping behind him. He could almost be flying.

John lurched forward. He'd never get there in time, his friend was falling too fast, far too fast, but John wanted to be there, just to see him, just to hold him one last time.

He didn't see the biker until the wheel of the bicycle hit him. John's vision blurred as he slammed onto the road. _Damn! _ Half walking, half crawling, John made his way to where Sherlock now lay, surrounded by pedestrians.

"Please," John choked out. "Let me through! I'm a doctor. I'm his friend!"

"There's no need for a doctor, luv. He's passed on." Someone murmured behind him. The crowd parted just enough to let him fall next to Sher-to his body.

"Sherlock..."

Blood was everywhere. Spurting from his nose, his ears, his mouth, John was kneeling in it. Sherlock's hair was soaked in blood, his neck twisted at an odd angle. Instinctively, John grabbed his hand, even as someone pulled him back.

"No... no..." He murmured.

_"Take my hand." He'd said..._

"_No!_"

He had to hold Sherlock, to cradle his broken body until he opened his eyes, told him it was just a dream, a nightmare. He wanted to wake up in Sherlock's arms, Sherlock whispering in his ear that it would be alright. It'd be okay.

John watched distantly as Sherlock's body was loaded onto a stretcher. Someone helped John into a cab and payed the fare. His voice trembled as he spoke the words.

" B-Baker Street. 221B Baker Street."

* * *

Upon opening the door, Mrs. Hudson was stunned to have John fall into her arms.

"John, what's happened, I could hear the sirens from down here... Where's Sherlock?" John pushed past her and ran up the stairs, his sobs reverberating around the flat.

John opened the door to Sherlock's room and fell onto his bed. He wanted to stay here, to breathe in the smoky scent he'd come to associate with Sherlock. He could still feel the touch of Sherlock's cold, dead hand. The haunting memory of Sherlock lying broken on the sidewalk outside Saint Bart's made him reel. He'd never thought he'd lose him.

He closed his eyes, tried to think of happier times. Their first kiss... that evening Sherlock had taken him to an Italian restaurant... their first night together. John choked back a sob. Why did it have to be like this? Why must Sherlock be torn from him? Why must he be left alone?

**R&R, it makes my brain go! Box it, or keep going? Do tell, I long to hear from you!**


	2. Sacrifice

**Thanks to Seriaphina for being the first to review! Yes- it's time to make the characters weep and tear their hair out. **

**Okay, we've had the lover's perspective, now it's time for Mum to have her say. Or at least, as close to a mum as Sherlock will ever get...**

**Oh! Disclaimer: NO NO NO NO NO! These characters do NOT belong to me!** **_"sigh"_**

It had been three weeks since Sherlock died. Two weeks since his funeral. One week since John had moved out of the flat. The memories were too close, too sharp and painful, he'd said.

Mrs. Hudson had been sad, if not a bit resentful, that he'd decided to go. Of course, she understood why. John and Sherlock would have been fools to think she hadn't noticed the hand-holding, the knowing glances, and the occasional moans from above that would wake her at night. But still, to leave her there, all alone, with all his things upstairs... it hurt.

Oh, he hadn't always been a particularly nice boy, always very difficult, but he'd been very loving, in his way.

He'd bought her flowers once, for Mother's Day, though John had put him up to that; he'd always hug and kiss her when he left or returned to the flat; he'd found that excellent medication for her hip-oh, what was she going to do without it- and he'd even called her "Mum" once, by accident.

Mrs. Hudson went to the third drawer of her curio cabinet and pulled out a large envelope, full of newspaper clippings, photographs, and even the occasional full article in a magazine. She'd planned on putting them in a scrapbook, to give to Sherlock for Christmas.

There was the photo she'd found lying on the kitchen table, of Sherlock and John laughing over some long forgotten joke. She didn't know who'd taken it. The newspaper photograph of Sherlock wearing the deerstalker that he'd so despised...

The landlady pushed the envelope away from her. She couldn't bear seeing him. And what could have caused him to end his life? He'd been happy. A little preoccupied, but then, that was Sherlock. Fairly normal. And so young, too! Poor man...

Of course, she'd read the papers, saying all kinds of terrible things about him, but she'd known Sherlock. He wasn't that kind of man.

Mrs. Hudson buried her face in her hands, feeling tears begin to leak from her eyes.

_My poor boy. My poor, poor boy._

* * *

Lestrade stared blankly at the headline.

**Suicide Of Consulting Detective!**

He still couldn't believe it. He'd known the man for years, and still had never dreamed he do something like this, even when playing witness to Sherlock's darkest moments. Greg could still remember when he'd gotten the news.

_Sergeant Donovan had practically fallen into his office. _

_"What's happened?" He'd said. She'd looked so pale, and guilty too, as if that were possible._

_"You're not going to believe this!" She said, and Lestrade saw that she was actually crying._

_"Donovan, what's going on?"_

_"He's dead!" She sobbed. "I can't believe it... he actually jumped!" Panic and confusion flew across Lestrade's face._

_"Who? Who jumped?" _

_"Sherlock Holmes!" Donovan gasped. "He's dead! He threw himself off, Lord knows why!" _

_Anderson appeared behind her, taking Donovan by the arm._

_"It's alright, Sally- Donovan. How could anyone have known? The man was psycopathic!"_

_"Stop it!" She pushed past him. "Don't speak ill of the dead!" The door closed behind them with a snap, leaving Lestrade alone in his office, grasping the side of his desk for support. Good God, Sherlock... _

_"Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he mightn't be a good one."_

_"You know how they never leave notes? This one did." _

Unbidden, Lestrade pulled out his laptop and went to John Watson's blog. Sure enough, the entry was there.

_"He was my best friend, and I'll always believe in him." _

* * *

John stared at the gravestone of his former friend and lover. It was a week after he moved out of the flat.

"Well?" He said, kneeling in front of the tomb. "Bored yet? There can't be much to do in Hell, except scream." Struck by sudden inspiration, he continued. "You know, you've really ruined our lives, by leaving. You're- You're hurting us all. Molly and Lestrade are bad enough, but I had to move out because I couldn't even walk downstairs without seeing Mrs. Hudson wiping her eyes. Mrs. Hudson! We- I need you back.

"Dammit, Sherlock! Dying isn't how it's supposed to go! You're not supposed to die!" Tears streamed down John's cheeks. Perhaps had he been in company, he would have minded, but now he was alone. There was only him and this cold gravestone, with Sherlock's moldering body beneath it.

"Good God Sherlock, I need you! You know I do! I love you!" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I need to kiss you, hold you like I used to." He drew a shuddering breath. "If you love me, come home. Come home, Sherlock. Come back to us."

* * *

_The stench of blood was on the air, mingled with death and hot sand. John was running, in-step with hundreds of others. He could taste the fear, the terror of those final, gut-wrenching moments. Explosives echoed over the plains of Afghanistan, along with the screams of the fallen. He tripped over a body, went sprawling over it, and found himself gazing at Sherlock. The ruby blood, the scarlet-stained eyes, the blood-soaked hair, his broken body-_

John woke, gasping for air. Instinctively, his hand wandered to the other side of the bed, seeking comfort from Sherlock- and remembered too late that Sherlock was gone. _Come back..._

* * *

Sherlock looked to the other side of the fold-out bed in Molly's flat. _John..._ _where are you..._ He thought. _Can you forgive me for what I've done? Can you forgive me for saving you all?_


	3. The Trail of Blood

**A/N: My goodness, here we go again! I'm not sure if I like this chapter yet, tell me what you think, _please!_ By the way, the long italics section is a flashback to directly after A Scandal in Belgravia, for those of you who don't pick up on these things.**

**DISCLAIMER: Yes, yes, yes, it all belongs to Moffat and Godtiss, *weeps* **

John couldn't sleep. Again. The insomnia had started about six months ago, with Sherlock's fall. He'd finally come to terms that his lover was gone, hopefully in a flawed world. John smiled to himself in the darkness. Sherlock would get bored in a better place. But even if he no longer cried when the memories became too strong, he'd sometimes forget himself at night, allowing his emotions to get the better of him. He'd wake, Sherlock's crimson-streaked eyes burned into his mind.

Sherlock... such a brilliant man. It had often puzzled John, how one man could be so flawed, yet so perfect in every way. He'd wake John at two in the morning because he'd just remembered the clue that would solve his current case, with little to no consideration for his friend. Such energy, such passion... gone.

_"Whatever made you think I was interested in The Woman?" Sherlock stared at John from across the table._

_"Well, I-I-you know..." John said, awkwardly. He'd always had difficulty voicing these kinds of thought and emotions around Sherlock. "All the... innuendo... she was making... it sounded like you both were... you know..."_

_"Let's have dinner?" Sherlock flashed one of his smiles-the ones that brightened his whole face and then disappeared within moments. "Oh, believe me, you thought that was bad? You should see my text history." _

_"I don't want to see your text history." John said firmly. Sherlock leaned in suddenly._

_"What's the matter, John? Jealous?" _

_John could feel his cheeks flush._

_"No! It's just that-" He suddenly met Sherlock's eyes, the ice blue piercing him. John looked away, trying to find something else to focus on, the tablecloth of the restaurant, the silverware, anything..._

_Sherlock reached out and brushed his friend's cheek with his pale hand._

_"There's no need to be jealous. You'll never need to be jealous. I promise."_

They'd gone back to the flat, John recalled, lost in each other. Later that night, John had looked over at Sherlock, who'd already been watching him.

_"I love you." He murmured. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then smiled uncertainly. "You'll be here, won't you?" John continued. "Be here-not just for me-but for all of us. You'll be here, right?" _

_"You know I will."_

But he'd lied. He lied, damn him! He'd gone and abandoned them all, right when they'd needed him most. When _John_ had need him most. What had made him jump? Had it been John? Was he somehow unhappy in his relationship with him? Oh God, John _needed _him!

* * *

That morning, at about ten o'clock, John's mobile phone rang, startling him.

"John?"

"Lestrade?" John was sure he'd mistaken the voice. He'd barely heard from the Detective Inspector for almost 5 months. "Why're you calling?"

"There's been a murder. Stifford Clays Road, Thurrock. Can I meet you there, in say, six minutes?"

"Why do you need me?" John asked. "Don't you have qualified doctors on your team? And anyway, once the body gets to St. Bart's..."

"There's no body." Lestrade replied.

"What? I don't understand..."

"Just come. I fill you in at the crime site. The address is 182 Stifford Clays Road, Thurrock. Six minutes."

* * *

Six minutes later, John Watson was at the crime scene, standing next to DI Greg Lestrade. They were staring at a large bloodstain that gradually inched its way towards the window of the house. The blood trail ended at the window sill. The furniture was almost entirely smashed, and there were several bloodstains on the upholstery.

"You see?" Lestrade said. "There's no body at all. It just vanishes." John nodded, his brow furrowed.

"Yes. So... remind me why I'm here?"

"You worked with Sherlock Holmes. We're utterly at a loss. Perhaps... you might notice something we didn't." John glanced at Lestrade.

"So you don't believe Sherlock was a fraud."

"Of course I don't." Lestrade replied. "It's the least I owe him for saving my arse so many times." His lips twitched. "I know it's a lot to presume... but..." He looked at John imploringly.

"I can try." John said. "But don't expect a miracle. I'm not Sherlock. I could never be Sherlock." His voice broke.

"I understand." The Detective Inspector, gazing at the pooled blood at their feet. "It's been hard for us all."

For a long time, neither of them spoke, both lost in a private reverie.

"Right." John said, breaking the silence. "Let's look at the blood."

He crouched down, inspecting the scarlet trail. "I'd say these are couple hours old at most. With this much blood, the wound was probably in the lower abdomen, or possibly the side..." He looked up suddenly. "Do you know what weapon was used?"

Lestrade shook his head.

"No idea. We didn't find a gun, and there wasn't anything in the room that could have made so much blood."

John nodded slowly.

"It would be so much easier if we had a body." He muttered. "Are you sure you didn't find one?"

"Positive. Nothing in the flat, nothing outside."

Suddenly, an idea seemed to strike John.

"I wonder... with this amount of blood..." He rubbed his chin. "It's been a long time since I've done this... I'll have to talk to Molly... but..." He stood abruptly. "I'm going to St. Bart's."

Halfway out the door, he caught Lestrade's expression.

"What?"

"It's amazing." He said, grinning. "You're starting to sound like him."

* * *

"Hello Molly!"

The pathologist turned, and smiled faintly when she saw John entering the lab at St. Bart's.

"Hello John." She said. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"Yeah, it's been a long time."

"Six months." Molly said, nodding.

"Yeah." There was an awkward silence, and then John suddenly remembered why he'd even come.

"Molly, I was just wondering..."

"Yeah?"

"Could a man lose about... five ounces of blood and live?" Molly stared at him.

"What do you want to know for?" Her expression was unnerving John.

"Molly? Are you alright...? You look a little pale."

"N-nothing." She said, crossing to the other side of lab and picking up a rack of test tubes. "Nothing, just that- I remembered-" She shook her head. "Nothing." She turned back to John Watson. "Five ounces of blood? Depends on the man. If he was really strong, really fit, then yes. Maybe."

"Thanks." John left the lab.

* * *

Outside St. Bart's, John stopped dead.

There it was. Where he'd fell. The former army doctor closed his eyes against the memories that were suddenly plaguing him.

_You've got to let go._ He told himself. _He's gone, you can't change it, can you just move on?_ _What would have Sherlock have done?_

* * *

Molly pulled her phone out of her purse. She needed to call him, now. Could John be getting to close to the truth? Five ounces of blood... the exact amount Sherlock had her extract from his arm that night six months ago.

_Be ready._ He'd said. _You need to be fast. I've set up something that will slow John down, but you still have to be quick. _

And later.

_He'll pick up on it. If he doesn't, he's not John Watson. The moment he says anything suspicious, contact_ _me._

"Hello? Sherlock?" Molly waited and then dropped the phone in shock.

"Oh my god!"

**A/N: Yes, an evil little cliffhanger! What do you think the next chapter will be about (aside from John weeping and tearing his hair out again) ;D. By the way,**

**REVIEW, or I release the Nazgul, the Daleks, the Cybermen, the Ood, the Slitheen, and maybe the Weeping Angels!**


	4. Never Dead to Us

**A/N: So, here we are again. I'm debating on whether to follow this up with a fifth chapter. What do you all think? Sorry if this chapter seems a bit anticlimactic after all the stress I've put John through. But, you know how it goes. **

**I'm telling you now: REVIEW or that mad man with the blue box will _never_ come to take you away from all this! Mwahahahahah!**

**Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. I'm simply borrowing them to inflict misery and torture.  
**

* * *

_"A man who won't die for something is not fit to live."_

_ -Martin Luther King jr._

* * *

_Blood was everywhere. Spurting from his nose, his ears, his mouth, John was kneeling in it. Sherlock's hair was soaked in blood, his neck twisted at an odd angle. Instinctively, John grabbed his hand, even as someone pulled him back._

_"No... no..." He murmured._

_"Take my hand." He'd said..._

_"No!"_

_He had to hold Sherlock, to cradle his broken body until he opened his eyes, told him it was just a dream, a nightmare. He wanted to wake up in Sherlock's arms, Sherlock whispering in his ear that it would be alright. It'd be okay..._

John awoke with a cry, his hands reaching out in a vain attempt to find Sherlock's body. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He had no right to have these dreams, not after six months.

It had been almost a week since Lestrade had called him about the case. Unfortunately, they hadn't made any breakthroughs, and the case was quickly taking a backseat in comparison to other, newer cases.

"Thanks for your help, but... I don't think we'll be solving this one anytime soon. And anyway..." Lestrade had said over the phone.

"And anyway, I'm not Sherlock." John finished. "Sherlock probably would have had the case solved in under ten minutes."

John was mildly hurt. He'd felt so sure he was close to something. Couldn't the victim have just staunched the blood at the window sill before leaving? Still, the room was several stories above the road. There would have been more bloodstains on the road, wouldn't there? And so, John was forced to conclude that his theory was flawed.

Molly was more distant, lately. They still occasionally ran into each other, spending a couple minutes of hurried conversation, before Molly broke off in the direction of her flat and cat.

She wasn't normally this nervous. John wondered vaguely what was going on.

* * *

"Sherlock?" Molly chewed on her lower lip. "Please answer your phone. I know things were a bit... delicate last time, but you've got pick up! For all I know, you really could be dead! She-"

"You know I'm not dead. You saw to it that I wasn't." Molly sighed in relief at the sound of the man's voice.

"Thank God! It's John, he's-"

"Molly, I know I've already asked a lot from you, but this time it's serious."

"And the last time doesn't count? John is-"

"Molly!" The pathologist automatically stopped talking. He'd sounded so panicked... "Don't say his name! Please! I need your help..."

* * *

Tuesday morning, John Watson was stunned to get a phone call from none other than his former landlady.

"Mrs. Hudson! By God it's been a long time."

"Well, that's why I was calling, John." Mrs. Hudson replied over the crackling line. "I was wondering if you'd like to visit sometime this afternoon. Have tea. Catch up. That sort of thing."

"Well, I'd- I'd love to, Mrs. Hudson. Of course!"

"Good!" Mrs Hudson said. "I do get lonely nowadays..."

"That would be wonderful, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you. I'll be there around... oh... four o'clock?"

* * *

"John!"

Watson gasped as he was pulled into a tight embrace.

"Now stand back, let me get a look at you."

Mrs. Hudson fussed over him like a mother hen.

"Oh my goodness... when's the last time somebody's cut your hair? And how long have you been sleeping nights, John? You've got such bags under your eyes."

Mrs. Hudson was just the same as she'd always been. She could have just welcomed John into 221B a year or so ago. A little grayer, a little more wrinkled, but the same gentle smile that said she was _so_ glad to see you again, dear me, has it been that long? John had forgotten how much he missed her.

"Well, dear me, I won't keep you out here on the sidewalk. Come in, come in, there's a dear." The door shutting behind her, Mrs. Hudson ushered John into the sitting room and then bustled into the kitchen, throwing a casual "I'll put the kettle on, dear!" over her shoulder.

While Mrs. Hudson busied herself in the kitchen, John examined the room he stood in. Dust was thick, caked on the tables and tops of bookshelves, except for one side table, on which rested a collection of photos and a photo album. On closer inspection, the photographs were all of Sherlock and John. The album's cover read "Sherlock." John silently berated himself. All these months he'd been wallowing in his own self-pity-he'd never bothered to think of Mrs. Hudson, or Molly, or Lestrade... Come to think of it, that was probably why Molly was so nervous around him; he reminded her too much of Sherlock, and how they'd both inadvertently broken her heart the moment they'd openly revealed their love.

"Here we are, a nice cuppa for a cold day!" Mrs. Hudson was back, this time bearing a tray. The pain of guilt stabbing him in the side, John seized the tray from her, setting it on the coffee table. "Oh." She looked mildly surprised. "Thank you, John."

"Don't mention it."

Mrs. Hudson smiled.

"I'm sorry, did you do something?" They laughed together.

"So how are you?" John asked. "I mean really. With Sher- Him gone." No matter how much time had passed, John knew that he would never be able to say His name again.

Mrs. Hudson stared quietly into her teacup, the blue roses painted on the china faded with years of use.

"Well enough." She said finally. "Of course, it's been so different without him, but... I'm fine. And you?"

"I've learned to live with it. Nobody's going to fill the bloody great hole he's left, but... that's life. Things break, things mend."

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"Of course, the album helps." She said. "I can flip through it, and pretend things are different for a little while." John laughed quietly.

"I could never do that. Waking up to reality would be too hard."

* * *

"This the place?"

"Yes..."

* * *

John and Mrs. Hudson had turned other, lighter topics of conversation when the knock sounded at the door. John looked at his former landlady quizzically.

"Did you invite anyone else?"

"Sure I didn't." She stood and went for the door. John took another sip of tea. Then:

"_Oh my God. JOHN!" _

"Mrs. Hudson?" John stood, stopped, and stared as Sherlock Holmes stepped over the threshold of 221B Baker Street.

He was so much more rugged than John remembered. He was wearing a blue and black track jacket and old jeans. His hair was several inches longer, and his eyes darker than normal.

"God damn me, John; forgive me." And he fell into John Watson's arms.

The kiss felt so natural, so right. They both knew what the other liked, even if they hadn't seen each other in half a year. Even so, it was rather salty, given the tears that were rolling down both their cheeks.

"You... utter... bastard. Leaving me alone..." John murmured into Sherlock's mouth. The detective pulled away.

"You taste so good when you swear." He murmured, and fell against him.

It was only then that John registered the wet patch on the track jacket, and Sherlock's labored breath.

"Oh my God." He pulled the jacket off, and ripped Sherlock's t-shirt over his head. A bloody hole was torn into his flesh, crimson tissue flecking the edges. "You've been shot... this- this is going to hurt you." John gingerly pressed his fingers to the wound, and Sherlock yelled, eyes widened in torment. Watson probed the gash as long as he could, until he could no longer take his former lover's cries. "I think the bullet's still in there." He turned to Mrs. Hudson, who'd stood there in shock. "Quick! First aid kit, anything!"

As the landlady hurried off, John shifted Sherlock to the floor, his head in John's lap.

"What happened?" John whispered.

"The house...the murder with no body...me... Sebastian Moran... Moriarty's lover...second in command... shot..."

"Don't try to speak if it's hurting you." John said. "I don't want you to hurt, Sherlock."

"I came here...knew it would be my last chance...Molly told me that." The detective managed.

"Shhh." John put a finger to Sherlock's lips. "It's not going to be your last chance. You're not going to die!"

"Are you going to argue with a pathologist?" He reached up and touched John's cheek with a quivering hand. "This is what I love about you, John. You have such an obstinate inability to accept the truth."

"Sherlock, just stop this! You're not dying!"

"Look at my wound, John. You've been out of practice for a while, but look." Sherlock brought John's hand to his wound. "The bullet's still there. Buried deeply, by the feel of it." He drew a shuddering breath. "You know, even if you won't accept it, that I'm dying. I just want you to be the last thing I see."

Mrs. Hudson hurried back with a first aid kit. John rifled through it, searching desperately.

"Damn, nothing to get the bullet out." He pulled out a roll of medical gauze. "This should slow down the bleeding though."

Tenderly, attempting to cause as little pain as possible, John wrapped the roll of gauze over the wound. It was clear Sherlock was trying not to cry out, mostly for the other's sakes.

"That should staunch the bleeding." John said again.

Mrs. Hudson pulled out a purple bottle.

"What about peroxide?"

"No!"John said. "That'll burn out the good tissue as well as the bacteria."

Suddenly, Sherlock pulled at John's jacket, forcing himself in spite of the pain.

"I'm going, John..." He breathed. "I want you to tell Molly... Lestrade...M-Mycroft..." He was delirious now, spouting off any names he could think of. "Mrs. Hudson... Irene...John... _John!"_ Sherlock fell back. "I want you to tell them that-" He was now staring into John's eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Oh God... I don't want to go!" He reached up, caressing John's face one last time...

His hand fell back, limp.

A terrible, choked scream tore through John's throat.

"_No!_" He shook Sherlock's fallen body. "Come back! Don't you dare..."

Mrs. Hudson sat next to him.

"John... John! It's alright. He's home now..."

"No, he's not! _This _is his home! _We're _his home!"

_...He had to hold Sherlock, to cradle his broken body until he opened his eyes, told him it was just a dream, a nightmare. He wanted to wake up in Sherlock's arms, Sherlock whispering in his ear that it would be alright. It'd be okay..._

* * *

John stared blankly at Sherlock's grave stone. It was after the funeral. There had been great confusion when it was discovered that the Great Consulting Detective hadn't been dead after all. But then he was.

"I know you're not coming back." John began. "Not this time. I saw you die. My clothes are stained with your blood. I know you're gone." He knelt beside the grave, tracing the letters on the headstone. SHERLOCK HOLMES.

"But just-you came back once-I'm still waiting. Still waiting for that miracle. Come back, Sherlock. Come home."

* * *

"Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them."

-George Eliot


	5. Addendum

**This is a follow-up, as requested by an anonymous reviewer. This chapter is entirely optional. Read if you want to.**

**Disclaimer: Nope, not mine, though there are days I wish it were. **

**Also, see if you can spot the Doctor Who line I sneaked into the previous chapter. Anybody who gets it gets a review for one of their stories!**

**Also, also: the song lyrics I put in this chapter are part of the refrain to Parachute by Cheryl Cole. I highly recommend it.**

John hugged his knees, his eyes closed. He'd been having the dreams again. The former army doctor shivered from the memory.

_"Well?" Sherlock asked. "Aren't you coming?" His long, pale hands were stretched out towards John. _

_John longed to take his hands, come with Sherlock wherever he was going...but he couldn't make his hands move. _

_"I can't."_

_John felt a kiss, light as a butterfly wing, brush his lips and then Sherlock faded from his view. All that was left was a bloodstain where he'd been standing._

John got out of bed, making for the radio. Maybe some music would calm him down...

_You're gonna catch if I fall,_

_Down, down, down..._

John kicked the portable radio, switching it off. Why did people have to write such bloody depressing songs? The answer rose in his mind, unbidden.

_Because we live bloody depressing lives._

Was this what Sherlock had felt after a crash? But then, Sherlock had had it easy. He'd just crawl into bed, and John would make him feel better with kisses and caresses. Sherlock had had John. But now, who did John have?

What would Sherlock do? What would he have wanted John to do?

Undoubtedly he would have figured out the innocent little bottle of sleeping pills that was hiding in John's dresser drawer. Just in case John decided he missed Sherlock too much. John was a doctor, and he'd lived with Sherlock for approximately two years. He knew he had the right dose.

But would Sherlock have wanted John to give his life up for oblivion?

John turned away from his dresser. No. Not tonight. Once he was back in bed, John closed his eyes, reaching out beside him.

If he concentrated, he could have sworn he felt the groan of bedsprings, a warm hand brush his own.

_And as long as his eyes were closed, John could wake up in Sherlock's arms, his lover whispering to him that it would be alright. It'd be okay._


End file.
